


Make No Sudden Movements

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fiction, M/M, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-02
Updated: 2005-08-02
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:27:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Second from my AU series, after Just Dance. An attempt at depicting disfynctional relationship.Also an answer to MKV Psychobabble challenge.





	Make No Sudden Movements

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Make No Sudden Movements

### Make No Sudden Movements

#### by Griva

  


Make No Sudden Movements 

Notes: this is the second installment in my AU series, first story being Just Dance. Here is an attempt at depicting the relationship as dysfunctional, though the characters are the same and I hope - easily recognizable. It's Krycek's POV and I allowed myself to portray Mulder as a bit of a ...drama queen. Because I'm sure of who'd wear the pants if he ever played house with Scully. 

Song quoted: Psychobabble by Frou Frou. Credit goes to Jynn, as well as for the beta. 

Rating: R. 

* * *

I was early once again, so as not to disturb him or seem too eager, I stood listening to music a good two hundred yards down the road, my personal CD-player on loud, the beat pulsing,///Make no sudden movements, And no one need get hurt, You're making me nervous.../// I wondered if it was a conspiracy to tap into my state of mind...? Perhaps. 

My eyes gazed round my surroundings awkwardly, trying not to look too interested in one thing. A smallish block of reddish-brown brick condos stood directly in front of me, an array of ornaments on each windowsill; a flower here, a candle there, and to my incomprehension, a sculpture that could only be an amateur potter's copy of Michelangelo's David. In the drive next to the condos were three cars similarly parked poorly. 

I looked at my watch, which was given to me by my grandfather on my 18th birthday: a leather strap and a face noticeably scraped in two places, with a small red star marking the 12. Komandirskije. One of the few memories of the past that I managed not to scatter in the following decade while traveling through the east coast, Canada and back. First following my mother who was constantly on the way from one husband to the next, her fifth being the last and taking her life in a drunk fight. Then with my grandfather who was an emigrant Pravda columnist turned construction worker. He quoted me Benjamin Franklin, showing me how to drill holes and weld wires: "He that waits upon fortune is never sure of a dinner." When he died, I tried my hand both at earning my dinner and stealing it. Then there was detention for a knifebrawl over a girl who looked like a guy and those rednecks that were calling us faggots over it. But I wriggled out of it and the girl had since left me for a guy who had blond locks like a girl's and I think I could have fucked him if I cared. But I did not. I hid my past, threw away my shiv and have been using my head and my hands for two years already. I have been representing a major security hardware company that, thanks to a major state tender, has had me settled in DC for at least half a year more to perform installation and tuning works. 

It was a cool Saturday morning and there was water on my forehead. Some people walk in the rain or even sing. I just get wet and tense. I wiped the misted watch face and noted the time: 10.55. Which gave me 5 minutes till I had to be there. 

So, starting up at leisurely pace, I began the walk up to where my 'special friend' would be waking up at this very moment. 

Once again, I noted my surroundings; I like to do this, as it gives me some sense of safety, as no matter where I am, I know I can rely on my sense of realism and logic to figure out just what kind of environment my two feet are making dust trails in. Anyway, this particular district looked more like a village. And a fairly large one, full of farm cottages and converted barns, not to mention a few shops here and there that are full of clichd flower arrangements and barking dogs in big back gardens. I wondered what made a friend like mine choose such a far-off average corner to live in and to spend almost four hours daily driving to his stronghold of Law and Order in the center of a bustling megapolis. 

I walked past a white cottage, dripping with flowers, like an upper class whore drips with diamante, its gates open, promiscuous vines falling down to catch the heads of passers-by. Being nosy as I am, I peered through the window, a strategic smile of a lost stranger in place, just in case. A woman was cleaning, hoover in hand, whilst watching some antiques program, that awful long-toothed man, the name of whom I can never recall, mouthing words of little importance to any but this 'impeccable' species of human. 

I got to the entrance of my destination, my feet moving automatically so as not to trip over the tumbling plants. I've stepped through this gate so many times before; tall, wooden, always open, (but I don't think it can actually close, due to the overgrown plants). It's only six steps to the front door, but life has breathed heavily upon the front garden, with greenery cascading down from above, thus making traveling slow. My special man is not the type of guy to weed his garden or to prune roses. But then he once mentioned he likes things to go wild. 

His house was a tall, thinnish building, ochre paint crumbling away to reveal the grey bricks underneath. It's still written in his late, mother's name. When I asked him why he hadn't arranged the papers to himself, he said "Why own anything, when everything goes away anyway?" And there, he just nailed my vision of the world. See, traveling so much as I do, you don't want to get attached to stuff. And you never know when you're gonna have to bail, right? And if there was one thing I'd learned in my time, it was the less you owned, the less you are owned. 

I looked up, noting again, this time the dark slate tiles of the roof, and then looked down again. 

Standing in front of the door, I rang the bell, remembered it doesn't work, and proceeded to knock on the heavy door panels, making my fingers throb. 

I rearranged my denim shirt's collar to reveal a small amount of neckbone, and unbuttoned my leather jacket. He told me then, during the first time, that he could still smell leather on my skin after we got naked. I brushed the front of my hair through with my fingers. I cut them again because they were falling into my eyes and I knew it would earn me at least a frown and a reproving tongue-click. Well, even though he preferred me to ride him face to face, I wouldn't pass for a girl. But I'm wiser than challenging my friend's sublimations aloud. 

I began to wonder whether he was home, so I began to knock once more when the door opened, and there he stood, tall and glowing. 

"Sorry I took so long, I've only just gotten out of the shower." 

I mumbled that it's okay and that I wasn't waiting long. I gazed up at him. He seemed to be much taller than me from the heights of a simple step above. He's usually only a couple of inches taller, but I was feeling small in the presence of his post-shower-towel-wrap ensemble, completely dwarfed. 

"It's early," he said with a slight hint of aggravation, and thus I realized my mistake of arriving at this time and wished I'd waited. 

He turned to walk to the kitchen, towel slipping down so I could see the small of his back. I got goose-bumps and stepped inside the hallway, closed the door, and took off my shoes and my jacket. All very routine things, but I always feel nervous whenever I first get round him. 

"Do you want a coffee or anything? We've run out of milk," he sighed. I wondered if by we he meant us or him and his dust bunnies. Then he began to speak quieter now, "but I can make you a proper coffee, none of that instant rubbish... if you want." 

"No thanks, I'm good." I didn't want him to go to any trouble as I seemed to have already hassled him. But he seemed to have reconsidered and reached out for a half-empty folio package of Arabia Mocha. 

"Fox, can I ask you something?" 

It took me a while to get used to calling him by his name because it was peculiar, but I'm sure it took him more effort to use my first name on an everyday basis. 

"Sure, go ahead." His voice was muffled as he leant into a cupboard and pulled out two mugs. I caught a glimpse of his back, shoulder-blades move under his pale skin as rudimentary wings. 

"Errr, well, I was just wondering whether Dana had called to arrange when she'd pick up her stuff, 'cause, you know, I said I'd help you tidy up after she'd left and I've got this wiring thing at Sun Trust Bank next week, so I want to make sure I'm not busy..." I trailed off into silence, my words greeted with a stony glare, not at me, in fact, not at anything apart from the memory of Dana. 

Ah yes, Dana, let me explain. Dana is Fox Mulder's long-term ex-partner. Well, for him, twelve months living together is almost a life-time. I saw her picture when he was throwing a stack of photos in the trash bin: a strikingly petite girl with stabbing baby blues and lips too thin for my liking. By what I have guessed from Mulder's curt explanations, she had not only white skin and freckles on her chest, but perseverance and will. They met at work, caught Fox's attention by wearing Lauder's Truth perfume and being the type that held faithfulness and sincerity as first principles. Meanwhile at first Dana looked skeptically at a partner whose motto was I am what is mine. Personality is the original personal property. They had a drawn-out wooing hampered by sharing the same cubicle and five more pairs of prying eyes and a Protocol that forbade fraternization among peers. Then Dana had suffered in a shooting accident where he thought it was all his fault and spent days at her hospital room's door, with her mother. But Dana got well after they had abandoned all hope, and so it seemed as the only _right_ thing to do - to make the last move as any man would... So there was a long dinner, a release of pent-up feelings and long meaningful conversations. And two cloudless weeks in Daytona Beach where they decided to stay together, despite the traumatizing experiences and Protocols that Dana seemed to be very reluctant to breech. Yet she soon moved into this house, because she did not want them to move in together at her mother's house, for when her father had died, her mother had invited Dana's spiteful hulk of a Marine brother to live with her and he couldn't stand Fox's guts. Fox's feelings towards the guy were reciprocally cordial. 

They lived together for a year, still addressing each other by last names occasionally. But then they started arguing, she switched departments, got promoted and was offered a transfer to the West. He refused to follow. He said that he could not abandon the search for the truth. She slapped him hard on the face and told him it was easier to fight for his principles than to live up to them. She exited the house with a bang, took his car and this is where I stepped into his life as a friend met by chance on a train journey the day after. 

I was caught fantasizing about the tall, smartly dressed stranger's mouth and he had asked me right away if he had something sticking to his teeth to have me so staring. We continued in a sideway bar, Fox being a shitty drinker or eager to share the gloom, for his tongue got loose. He had tried to explain to me how their living had formed a kind of stasis: the inertia of two objects that are so often apart that they barely affected each other anymore, except in passing, when he sometimes cast a broken shadow over their bed on his way out the door. I complimented him on his ability to speak so ornamentally and kept to myself that maybe they were too smart for each other. For when she left him a note on the fridge that said, "Buy cheese," and he tried to read into it some hidden meaning, but couldn't. Well, I told him that the meaning was obvious - BUY CHEESE!, and he puckered his high brow broodingly and then bought me another scotch. I treated him to the taxi and clapped him hard on the shoulder as he stumbled out, urging him to forget about the bitch. 

He called me a few days after that to ask for help with a shorted out circuit. When I had finished with the wiring, on a pouring April evening, it was discovered that some local brat had pierced my tire. Fox was watching the old black and white flick The Day The Earth Stood Still and offered me cheese popcorn and a Dry Martini in compensation... Till this day I have a cold ghost of a suspicion in my stomach that all he wanted was not my tongue in his mouth with my fist on his cock, but a revenge. A dirty payback that he would never admit to his woman. But he allowed it to go on and on, we went out for a drink once in a while at the opposite end of the city, rented videos and I showed him how to do stuffed potato pancakes and then Fox started sharing his sci-fi library with me. Even when I dropped by to return a book, we'd end up playing grabass in five minutes. First hand jobs, then blow-jobs and finally a full ass fuck that I'd never forget because I've never been anyone's first before... because I guess he is a sexed up guy and an angry guy and he needs it often and Dana was often not in the mood and regularity of her headaches was suspicious. 

Yet, sometimes I think it was very much a 'sweethearts' thing, and thus I cannot bear the guilt of stepping in on his turf. Although to be fair, I'm not exactly sure where Fox and I stand. 

Well, The anwser is no untill you ask the question. 

"No. We haven't spoken yet." 

He likes to go from A to B without inventing letters in between. He must be feeling pangs of guilt still, but this can't go on anymore and he knows it. We both do. But still nothing happens. 

More silence, followed by the click of the kettle as it boils. 

Then Fox starts frowning, then sighing, his frowns are deep and tragic; his sighs are loud and dramatic as always. I cross the kitchen to put my arms around him, and he struggles at first, then leans into me, and sobs one or two milky tears onto my shirt and skin. He is sincere in his emotions, and it makes me wanna do lunatic things for him. I stroke his thick brown hair, still heavy with moisture from the shower, and let my fingers run down the length of the inside of his neck. His skin is so soft after a morning shave, and I draw him closer to me so I can smell his hair. He's changed his shampoo again, and this time I don't like it, because it smells odd. I kiss the top of his head nevertheless. 

He kisses me full on, taking me by surprise, as routine, which surely is a contradiction in itself. But that's the thing I can never get over about him, and when he's gone, 'cause they all go, I'll always remember it... 

I lean into the kiss, his forceful lips taking over mine, and I feel lost and small again, as he becomes this big shining thing, powerful and amazing. But it's always been that way, and maybe that's the way I like it. 

Because this goes against all the habits and rules of how I was having my previous lays. I was not letting my women ever turn my head. I was free to go and they were free to leave. But then, as they say, habit is a cable; we weave a thread each day, and at last we cannot break it. I felt grounded here. 

"God, I want you," Fox says against my mouth, barely breaking for air, and I start laughing in short coughing spurts between kisses, because even that was an honest-to-god turn-on, hearing him say it in that shocking, hoarse voice, like he couldn't even breathe, and apparently all that pouting and emo-demonstration has been a complete waste of time. 

I hoped so. That this might be that time. 

* * *

I wouldn't say that I'm a masochist. Actually it is the first time that I have gotten into a relationship that I know will hurt me, but those relationships aren't full of pain until the very end, until all the heart-strings have been fully attached, then once again severed. 

And yes, I've always enjoyed the controversial side of things when it comes to 'bedside manner'. Sans sentiments, I loved, from time to time, to suck cock and ride a taut, tight handsome guy's ass. I might even let you tie me up or slap you once if you ask me real good. But still. I'm not a masochist. And I'll carry on telling myself that until I die, 'cause it's a thing of pride. 

Fox though, with his elongated limbs covered with supple flesh, smooth as satin and taut and cool, he's a sadist. Emotionally of course. 

And thus my day with Fox ends; sheets crumpled, a stool overturned, bed covers strewn across the floor, shouting, me scrambling to put my clothes on whilst he spits a curse at me, preceded by an accusation of me pressuring him or even worse - me using him for cheap thrills. A viper, that's what he is sometimes. I state it in his face, and fuelled by helpless frenzy, gather enough courage to stat, 

"How much more time are we going to waste time indulging your sense of guilt at not feeling guilt?" 

"I don't feel guilty. I feel." Nothing, he almost said, and I almost wished that were true. 

This is some...answer. I go down the stairs, wiping my face, trying not to trip over my feet and he leans over the door, naked, ill-tempered and as if vacillating and there we are again telling each other to go to hell, knowing full well that we'll sleep together again in a couple of days, knowing he'll call and will ask me how I'm doing in a nonchalant voice, I will say "I dig it man, it's fine." He will frown, I'll hold him and he'll kiss me the way he always does. 

"It'll all end in drama," isn't that the expression? Or was it... _in tears?_ Damn right it is. 

But as I said, the lays, they come and go. I'm the only one that doesn't change, and Fox, well, he doesn't seem to have changed much either since I first met him, other than his sexuality that is. But then I don't buy his fairytale of me having smitten him and that Fox had never slept with a man except once, on a drunken bet, but he claims it never went past an awkward mouth-job. 

I wonder how he marries his search for the truth with lying to himself. 

I don't know. Maybe we'll pull through, past the fighting and violence. And Dana will collect her medical reference books and her collection of perfume bottles and her red velvet dress. 

After all, we're both mature men and I'm sure we could sort it out. We could move to California or Key West or Quebec. I am more than sure I can make him follow me. But do I really want that? 

I'm not a masochist, but boy do I love it when he shouts at me to "stay the fuck out of Dana's life", 'cause that hurts. Real bad. 

I punch the play button as I strut away from Fox's house. I didn't notice but it is getting dark...Time was slowing, like moving under water, or drowning... 

/// If you know what's good for me, Why would I be loving you??/// 

/end  
July 26th, 2005   
  

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Griva


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